


And I'm Greedy

by anomalously



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mechanic!Mickey, Porn With Plot, gentle dragging of the irish its fine, i didnt specify if ian has an accent but youre welcome to imagine that, if you like the boyfriend experience you might like this tbh, mobster!ian, we're not really here for that tho are we
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 17:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16067693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: Ian's boss needs a job done; Mickey's temporarily closed for business.I'd elaborate more, but where's the fun in that.





	And I'm Greedy

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Kerri for the title tbh lol

He had exactly zero time for this. It was too late for this shit, Mickey was tired and needed a fat blunt before bed, not to be stared down by some too-tall Irish prick.

“God _damnit_ Milkovich, you’re fucking me!”

Mickey snorted, eyes rolling as he propped his feet up on his desk (it was cluttered as hell, no thanks to his sister stomping in there earlier to return the mountain of paperwork that _he_ had dumped on _her_ the day before).

“No. You’ll _know_ when I’m fucking you, trust me.” _Well, he wasn’t lying._

Irish were damn dramatic. Sometimes worse than Italians, and the _Italians_ ? They were the worst drama queens in this goddamn city. This fucker was no different, and Mickey had been putting up with Ian Gallagher’s _particular_ brand of pushy bullshit for the past three years.

He was tall, obnoxiously good looking with crooked jaw and mess of freckles that Mickey had the _strong_ suspicion covered him from head to toe. If he weren’t such a fucking demanding Irish prick, Mickey probably would’ve jumped on that years ago (a hundred percent aware that he’s fooling himself if he thinks he wouldn’t _still_ ). The redhead covered it well, but Mickey could practically smell it on him. The guy fucked as many dudes as Mickey did.

“What’d you say to me?” Ian’s face tightened, shoulders moving slow as he shifted from foot to foot. Touched a nerve. Good.

There was this real dirtbag part of Mickey that loved poking at the redhead, riling him up. Ian was so used to being in control of conversations, so Mickey liked to periodically throw a wrench. Regardless, he really didn’t want to have to explain this shit once more, he had a long day and needed to unwind.

“I said you’ll _know_ when I’m fucking you,” Mickey stood, leaning over his desk to get his point across. Ian was still, staring him down, just breathing. _Got you_ . Mickey pulled the corner of his mouth back in a quick grin before he continued. “There’s too much heat out there right now. I’m not putting my fucking family on the line for you or _anybody_ else, so either sit on that shit til we can get to it, or handle it your damn self.”

Thing was, Ian wouldn’t go anywhere else and Mickey knew that. Gallagher’s worked for the O’Shea’s, and O’Shea’s were _only_ interested in working with the Milkoviches for disposal, because the Milkoviches were the only ones in Chicago that could promise a guarantee that they made shit disappear _forever_ , and deliver on that promise. Everyone knew —everyone who needed to know, that is.

The O’Shea’s refused to rely on anyone else to take a dirty car and crush it up all small and pretty before it was melted down. That was something _else_ that everyone knew.

Ian almost sounded desperate this time, “You can’t get it done _quiet_?”

“No,” was all Mickey gave him.

“We’ve been giving your family business for ten fucking years!” Ian’s lip curled back a little as he stepped closer to Mickey’s desk.

Mickey got hot all up and down his back, but not in the good way this time. “Yeah, my _family_ . The fuck part of _I’m not putting my family’s asses on the line_ didn’t get through that thick mick skull? The fuck you think happens if _we_ go down, what’re you gonna do then? Because... you _know_ if you go somewhere else, that shit will come back to bite you in the ass.”

Ian took another step, doing that thing he did when he was trying to intimidate Mickey, even though the both of them knew that there were worse things in the world than Ian fucking Gallagher’s soft pretty boy face. Mickey deals with people ten times worse than this fucker on a regular basis; it was almost comical.

“You threatening me?”

Mickey had to bite the inside of his cheek, clench his fist and breathe deep to keep from hurling himself across his desk —to do what, he wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t pretty. He heard exactly what Ian was getting at, and Mickey was a lot of things but he wasn’t a fucking _snitch_ . “I should throw your ass in the ground for coming into _my_ goddamn shop and even suggesting that. Don’t you _ever_ twist my fucking words again.”

Ian gave him a once-over, green eyes hard, “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

It took everything in Mickey to stop himself from groaning in either exasperation or… well, _want_ . As much as the redhead pissed him the fuck off, Mickey always walked away from these arguments with a semi. Because his goddamn dick was an _idiot_.

“Well, since you’re the only other person in this room, I’m gonna say _you_.”

There was a pause, where Ian let out a slow breath, head shaking again like he was trying to figure out a million things at once. Then he gave Mickey a soft look, voice dropping to match, shoulders sinking, “I _need_ this taken care of, Mickey. _Please_.”

Mickey rubbed the tip his fingertips against his mouth. He couldn’t make exceptions right now. He just couldn’t. Besides, he was violently aware of what Ian was trying to pull on him, and it almost made him crack a grin. Almost. He’s let it slide before… a few times before.

They’ve had… _moments_ . They barely count and are always achingly brief. Moments where Ian was all charming and using that voice, and Mickey would roll his eyes and let out a string of curses before he caved. Both of them know that Mickey knows _exactly_ what Ian’s doing when he pulls that shit, but they never address it. They also never address things Mickey says to Ian, sliding little comments into conversations to fluster the redhead, to throw him off because Mickey likes to watch him squirm and cover it with outrage, _you’ll know when I’m fucking you._

Ian and Mickey had a shared but completely separate secret. The kind of secret that in this line of work you can’t say out loud. The kind of secret that you can only tell people who you know with absolute fucking _certainty_ will take it to the grave with them.

“Listen pretty boy, that shit might work on O’Shea, but it don’t work on me.”

“Has before,” Ian pointed out, still low and soft, still trying. His eyes were green as hell. “C’mon.”

His stomach flipped and turned warm. “Not this time,” Mickey wasn’t going to budge. He couldn’t, even if those eyes were working on him.

Ian’s soft face hardened back up as he finished what Mickey started in breaking the spell, “God _damnit_ Mickey, come on! What the fuck am I supposed to tell him, you’re bitching out because of a little _heat_?”

Leave it to Ian Gallagher to take one of their moments and throw gasoline on it. _Irish_.

Fine. Mickey found himself coming around his desk so he could make this shit _perfectly_ fucking clear.  Who the hell did Ian think he was, coming in here like this, throwing around demands like _he_ was supposed to be on the top of the priority list?

He stepped up close to Ian, eyes hard and focused. He’d rather bleed out than back down from some Irish prick. Now… add ten years, fifty pounds and turn this fucker _Russian_ , and Mickey wouldn’t be standing where he was right now. But Irish? Nah. Fuck this guy.

“You don’t run me,” Mickey reminded him. Ian lifted a brow at him that Mickey ignored. “ _You_ bring _me_ business—”

“That we fucking pay for,” Ian growled.

“Yeah, when the shop is _open_ .” Mickey looked Ian up and down again. “So you tell him to pull up his big boy panties, take that shit out to the middle of nowhere, break it down his _goddamn_ self, and bury it.”

“That right?” Ian’s jaw clenched.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. And then you can tell him the next time he sends his fucking _boy_ to do business again last minute instead of coming in here like a man, he’s gonna find himself looking for another shop. And like I said, that’s gonna bite you in the ass, because _no one_ can fucking do what we do.”

Ian huffed an empty laugh; Mickey smelled sweet mint on his breath and almost got distracted. “Not a fucking _ounce_ of loyalty, huh?”

Ian liked to rile Mickey up just as much as Mickey liked to rile Ian. Mickey’s known that for a while, and he knows that Ian doesn’t really believe what he’s saying ( _no one_ is loyal like a Milkovich) but he can’t just let that shit slide.

“Fuck you,” Mickey sucked his teeth. “In case you _forgot_ Gallagher, my shop is fucking _Switzerland_ as far as you’re concerned. The only loyalty I owe to _anyone_ is my family. You ain’t family.”

Ian stared down at him, jaw twitched as he bit down hard. It was right then that Mickey finally really noticed that Ian was wearing an expensive suit, and here he was in his grease-stained coveralls and work boots. It was tense. Mickey was an immovable object, and Ian was used to being the unstoppable force —the right amount of charm and looks paired with the threat of a bunch of jacked up Irish meatheads in the wings can get you anything you want.

Not this time. No exceptions, pretty freckled redheads included.

“Get the fuck out of my shop,” Mickey told him. The tension was starting to choke him, starting to warm him up in the good way, so he had to shut it down. “Tell O’Shea I said the next time he sends you, you’re not gonna be so pretty when you come back.”

Ian took a step back, eyes dragging up and down Mickey as he did, “Watch yourself, Milkovich.”

“I got a forty-five in my desk, you wanna see it?” Mickey sniffed.

Ian smirked, “Sure. I left a present in your backseat, you wanna go open it first?”

Mickey pointed to his office door, done with the game. “I said get the fuck out.”

Ian left, giving him a strong middle finger as he did, which Mickey returned gladly. He plopped back down in his office chair and sighed long, rubbing the back of his neck. Yep. Mickey glanced down at his lap, cursing his dick’s lack of self control. Every time.

He didn’t get even a minute of quiet before Mandy was walking into his office, arms folded in front of her, “You better go fix it. _Now_.”

Mickey pulled a face at his sister, “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because we’ve been working with O’Shea for _ten years_ , and the last thing anyone really needs right now is a fucking Irish temper tantrum. So why don’t you stop thinking with your dick and catch him before he reports back to his boss. Because you all but said to tell O'Shea to eat a pile of shit.”

Mickey felt that heat up and down his back again, “Thinking with my dick?”

“Is that all you got from that, _really_ ?” Mandy looked perplexed before her eyes rolled and she punched out a laugh. Mickey didn’t dignify that with a response. “Mickey… listen, the guy came in here in the middle of the night dressed like _that,_ asking for you and only you when he could’ve gotten the same information from me next door or literally _anyone_ else in this goddamn shop. He wanted _you_ . He _always_ only wants you.”

“The fuck you getting at?” Mickey swallowed, knowing he was barely pulling off acting dumb about this.

He knew. Mandy saw. Mickey knew he was safe with Mandy, with his whole _family_ now that his piece of shit dad got popped five years ago (a bittersweet day for them all)… but he was still learning to be okay talking about it with them. Iggy was the worst, fucking embarrassing. He meant well, just ran his mouth.

Mandy’s face fell with frustration, “Oh my _god_ , I refuse to answer that. Go fix it before one of us goes to start our car and ends up getting blown the fuck up, because I really don’t feel like scraping anyone off of the parking lot, okay?”

At this point, Mickey had fucking had it with people not taking this shit seriously. Mandy knew better than this, she knew how they kept their guarantee, and it wasn’t being stupid like crushing dirty cars in the middle of the night at a time like this. They had to wait for this shit to blow over, they had to wait til the cops got bored.

He pointed aimlessly over Mandy's shoulder, “Have you not noticed the fucking _unmarked car_ that’s been watching us for the past week? We can’t risk it Mandy. Anything that goes into the yard has to be _legit_ right now. We have to have _papers_ , we have to have fucking _proof_ that shit isn't dirty! I'm not doing it, they're not stepping one fucking _foot_ in my yard with that car!”

His sister gave him a slow but shitty smile, stepping up to his desk, leaning over to get in his face, “Okay, fine. Why don’t you pull up your big boy panties, take it out to the middle of nowhere, break it down your _goddamn_ self, put it in a hole, and drown it. And then… _get paid_.”

“You’re such a bitch,” Mickey scoffed. Of course she’d use his own words against him.

She nodded, “I know, I learned it from you. Oh, and while you’re at it… I know you don’t mix business with personal but this verbal foreplay you’ve got going on with Ian is exhausting, just fuck him already.”

“The fuck you say—”

“I said you’re a pussy!” Mandy cut him off loudly as she walked out of the door.

 

* * *

 

When Mickey got to the parking lot, he almost turned right back around to go back inside. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

Gallagher was leaning against his car that he had annoyingly parked directly behind Mickey’s truck. His hands were shoved into his nice pant pockets, a shit-eating grin smeared across his face. His smug pretty boy face that all Mickey could think about doing was punching it.

“Knew you’d change your mind,” Ian shrugged.

“That why you barricaded me in?”

Ian tuned his head to look over at Mickey’s truck, giving another noncommittal shrug, “You Russians are squirrely.”

“See, I _was_ gonna help you,” Mickey made his way over to Ian, lifting his shoulders. “Now I’m not.”

“Mick,” Ian tilted his head to the side, eyes rolling. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

Mickey shook his head, sighing. They weren’t friends to where Ian could call him Mick, and Ian knew that, but he was doing that _thing_ again. Soft and charming and pulling on something Mickey had buried deep under his skin that scared the fuck out of him, no matter how badly he wanted to dig it out for the redhead. And _fuck_ it made him want to throw himself out a window, but his frustrating truth was that he _did_ want to dig that part out of himself and set it right in Ian's hands. And he _hated_ that.

Part of him wondered how long they could circle around this before they crashed. _If_ they crashed. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Don’t do what?” Ian asked when he didn’t need to.

Instead of answering, Mickey just gave him a look before tossing a pack of cigarettes at the redhead. “There’s an unmarked car down the street, so take the rolled up piece of paper in there and put it behind your ear before you light up.” Ian gave him a look, a silent question, but he did as he was told before handing the pack back. “It’s an address.”

“Different shop?”

Mickey pulled out a cigarette, lighting up before tossing the lighter to Ian, “No. But if you want this done, meet me there tomorrow at midnight, we’ll get this shit taken care of. I’ll run by and get the car in the morning.”

Ian’s shoulders fell in relief. He pushed a hand back over his red hair and sighed, “Thank you.” God damnit. Why did he have to look like that? Ian stopped and smiled slow at Mickey, thanking him again, softer this time.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mickey caved a little as he grinned, this time really letting himself take in the redhead. He looked good as fuck in that suit, he always did, and Mickey didn’t normally go for that, except for when this prick showed up at his shop. “You’re gonna be worn the fuck out by the time I’m done with you.”

Ian froze up and Mickey gave a soft snort of a laugh. He couldn’t help it, Ian didn’t even have the wherewithal to have a comeback or channel any false outrage. All that came out of the redhead’s mouth was a breathy, “What’d you say?”

“You’re gonna help me,” Mickey told Ian. “So wear something… not that.”

“Wait… _what_?” Ian was pulling himself back together now, brows creasing.

Mickey kept quiet as he strolled to the backseat of his truck, opening the door, grabbing something and throwing it at Ian’s chest. It was a pair of coveralls and work gloves. “You want this done so fucking bad, you’re gonna get those hands dirty.”

Ian scoffed, throwing the bundle back, “The _fuck_ I am.”

“Hm,” Mickey tucked it under his arm, “No, I think you are. I’m not letting anyone else from my shop but me touch that car right now… so I’m gonna need _you_ to man the fuck up and help me help you. Got it?” He threw the bundle back at Ian.

 

* * *

 

Mickey got where he needed to be before noon.

No one really ever went out to the farm that much. Mickey’s not sure whose name is on the deed to the land, but it’s been Uncle Randy’s for as long as Mickey can remember. He’s not sure if there’s any other use for it besides whatever they need to use the house, barn or land for. Shit, Colin and his wife got married under the big tree behind the house three summers ago. They've had a couple drunken family reunions out there.

Randy hadn’t been all that thrilled that Mickey wanted to do this, and Mickey couldn’t blame him. Part of the job: risk.

Getting the car was easy. Mickey took the “off-site” tow truck that they kept in an old warehouse, instead of one of the shop’s —the one that doesn’t have _Milkovich Auto “Full Service Mechanic & Body Shop!” _ slapped across the hood. The truck who's under the name of a dead relative, and that Mickey drives with a hat and sunglasses. It seems like Too Much, but it's not.

Thank god the car was a small two-door. The smell of bleach pours out from the broken drivers side window, so after Mickey’s done moving the car into the large, open barn he opens all the doors and trunk to let it air out.

He almost calls O’Shea to thank him for having someone clean the thing up before he got his hands on it. Because last time someone on the O’Shea side fucked up, and they had to have a conversation about how the Milkoviches _didn’t_ run a crime scene cleanup crew, they _strictly_ worked on cars. No blood in the shop, _ever_ , not one drop. Mandy had to stop Colin from going down there himself to start cracking heads, he was the worst stickler about that shit... fucking John Wayne Gacy over here.

By three in the afternoon, Mickey had parked the backhoe back behind the barn where it was before, out of sight from the road. They couldn’t use it in the middle of the night, even if they were out in the middle of nowhere. You don’t get the reputation the Milkoviches did by taking shortcuts. Shit had to be _strict_.

The whole morning… actually the whole day, Mickey had been pushing down Mandy’s words from the night before. She didn’t tell him anything he already didn’t know, but still. Hearing that shit out loud was a whole other story. And now Mickey had to go and put himself in a situation where he was going to be working and sweating with Ian all through the night, and… fuck. He was an idiot.

 

* * *

 

Yeah. He’d made a _serious_ mistake.

The whole time Ian had been helping was fine. They bickered a little because Ian didn’t actually know what the fuck he was doing so Mickey had to give him a crash course in breaking a car down. Ian was a quick learner though, so that wasn’t the serious mistake he had made.

Mickey hadn’t realized his mistake until they were nearly finished with the job. The car had been broken down completely, the pieces dragged over to the hole that Mickey had dug earlier that day, and then thrown in. Then the acid came, and despite it being fucking _acid_ and Mickey was mostly doing this shit by himself, which that alone was a _stupid_ fucking move… Ian helped where he could and they “drowned” the pieces (acid is, tragically, not always like the movies). That wasn’t where he saw his mistake either.

It was when both of them grabbed a shovel and started burying the damaged pieces of metal.

Summer nights were hot, on top of already doing _hours_ of manual labor. Sunrise was on its way, the dark sky starting to glow at the edges. Mickey’s muscles screamed for mercy, not having had to do this shit in _years_ , and he knew Ian was right there with him. Mickey was beyond tired, beyond hurting, beyond fucking _done_ with this and really glad that O’Shea agreed to pay them double and a half, given the circumstances.

The problem was Ian had _already_ looked good as fuck in the coveralls Mickey gave him. It was _already_ a distraction when Ian unzipped the top part of his coveralls and tied the arms around his waist. But when they were burying this fucking thing, Ian decided that it wasn’t _enough_ , he was still _too_ _hot_ and the next thing Mickey knew, he was watching the redhead peel his sweaty undershirt off and throw it on the ground, just leaving him in the bottom half of his coveralls.

That. _That_ was the serious mistake that Mickey hadn’t thought of. Because… goddamn.

He almost walked away in exasperation right then and there. He almost let _what the actual fuck_ slip out of his mouth.

“S’going on?” Ian wiped his sweaty brow, looking over at Mickey. He’d caught him staring. It was hard not to stare. Ian was… well formed, to put it lightly. Mickey already kind of knew that, but actually fucking _seeing_ it all sweaty and muscles straining with movement, and with dirt smeared over pale freckled skin… this was such a _huge_ fucking mistake.

Mickey shook his head, getting back to work. He lied, “Thought I heard something, it’s fine.”

Ian didn’t look that convinced, the corner of his mouth pulling back a little as he nodded, “Okay.”

A few more minutes pass by. Mickey’s doing everything he can not to look over at Ian, or to listen to the noises he makes as he shovels huge piles of dirt. He sounds too good.

“Aren’t you fucking _hot_?”

Mickey swallows hard, being pulled away from the job once again —it’s easier to grab onto the frustration of that. He gives Ian a face, “Don’t worry about me, keep fucking shoveling, I wanna be done with this shit.”

The truth was, yes he was fucking hot. He was _miserable_ . Mickey had his coverall sleeves pushed up to his elbows and the zipper halfway down even though his (disgustingly dirty and sweat soaked) undershirt blocked air from easing his heated skin. But shoveling dirt side to side with Ian, both bare chested, sweaty and grunting… shit, Mickey himself as a _lot_ of self control, but his dick does _not_.

There was no way he was getting in his truck like this, his boots were caked with mud _—he_ was caked with mud from the knees down. Damn lucky he had the thought to bring the key to the house. There wasn’t much in the old structure, but there was always towels and soap and shampoo. He knows for a fact that there’s a bottle scotch that's as old as he is tucked in the pantry, which is plenty incentive to get this done fast.

God, he couldn’t wait to take a hot shower. He bit his bottom lip to keep his groan in, pausing his shoveling because at the thought of a steamy shower, there was another body in there with him, and it looked a whole hell of a lot like the body ten feet away from him.

 

* * *

 

You couldn’t pay Mickey enough money to figure out how he ended up lounging back against plush cushions, as Ian did the very same on the other side of the couch. Freshly scrubbed down, clean clothes, and a glass in his hand ( _yes…_ he cleaned up real good inside and out so _fuck you very much_ ). Mickey was mostly trying to chill the fuck out.

Technically it was entirely too early for a drink —Mickey didn’t like drinking this early in the first place, not anymore. But after doing a job like that old school, a job that required three people at _minimum…_ he earned it.

“Damn good,” Ian hummed into his glass. “Smooth.”

Mickey pulled the corner of his mouth back in a grin, watching Ian sit back against the couch cushions, relaxing his aching muscles. Christ, he wanted him. Mickey had never wanted someone to take him over the way he wanted Ian to, it almost scared him out of wanting it entirely. Almost, but not quite.

“So is this a safehouse?” Ian disrupted the short silence Mickey had been soaking in.

“If it was a safehouse, you wouldn’t be here.”

Ian smirked at that, “You don’t trust me?”

He grunted as he took a drink before he answered, “I don’t know you.”

The redhead didn’t say anything right away, just looked at Mickey with a slight lift of his brow, like an _oh really_ gesture. “Don’t you? I bet I know _you_...”

The air was sucked out of Mickey’s lungs, as Ian’s words made his veins catch fire. He didn’t know what to say to that right away, for once. He was out of words. He didn’t like the taste of his own medicine. Mickey stared Ian down; Ian stared right back, a silent battle.

“Watch it,” Mickey softly warned before he took another drink —a gulp, really.

Ian grinned all sly, moving careful but closer, “How long are we gonna keep this up, Mickey?”

Mickey clenched his jaw tightly. He warned, a little harder this time, “Gallagher...”

Ian pointedly ignored him, “Tell me I’m off base.”

“You’re _way_ off fucking base.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Mickey glared, then knocked back the rest of his scotch, letting it burn all the way down. He wanted it too much—wanted Ian too much. Mickey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he stood, shaking his head at Ian, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Ian laughed, actually fucking laughed, “If I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about… how come you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about in the first place?”

Fuck him. Mickey ignored him, reaching his hand out, “Gimme your glass, time to go.”

The Irish prick rolled his eyes as he downed the rest of his drink and stood next to Mickey, “So I guess you’re all talk then. Okay. All bark and no bite whatsoever.”

Mickey completely forgot the glass, he was too busy trying to keep his feathers unruffled, and failing miserably. He was watching Ian throw more and more bait in front of him, and he was picking up each and every single one, sinking his teeth into it. And there was nothing he could do to stop himself.

“The fuck you just say to me?” Mickey questioned harshly.

Ian, the fucking nuisance, was delighted in Mickey’s response, back straightening a little as he grinned wickedly. He gently plucked Mickey’s empty glass from his hand, setting it down with his own on the coffee table. With a sweet face like Ian’s, it was easy to forget who he was. It was really fucking easy to forget that he wasn’t some South Side closeted idiot that Mickey could intimidate into keeping his goddamn mouth shut with a sharp look. Maybe there was a time, back before they ever met, where Ian _was_ that... but he sure as shit isn't that now.

“Scared you’ll regret it?” Ian asked, clearly knowing that he was pressing his luck. “Or… are you scared that you’ll get _exactly_ what you need?”

 _Yes_ and _yes_. Mickey rolled his eyes, to cover his intake of breath, deciding that entertaining this shit would only lead to verbally sizing each other up and him walking away hard and wanting. “No,” he lied.

“Then… come here,” Ian said after a moment of absolute heavy quiet, after his eyes turned molten, drinking Mickey in.

They were already within arms distance. Mickey’s stomach fluttered, but a chuckle spilled from his mouth, because he quickly realized that Ian was making assumptions about him. Assumptions that, terrifyingly, are  _resoundingly_ accurate.

“You got it wrong, red,” Mickey told him, staying right where he was. His legs ached to move closer, barely holding on to his resolve at this point, body conflicting with his guard.

Three years is a long time to dance around, after all. It just is. And Mickey’s entire _being_ was screaming with the need to rest… but the scream for release was even louder.

“What do I have wrong?” Ian’s voice had that pull of humor.

“You think you know me,” Mickey huffed, eyes dragging up and down Ian’s tall body. He’d had the foresight to bring along clean clothes —jeans and a gray t-shirt, far more casual than Mickey’s ever seen him. He looked so good like that, comfortable. “But I don’t like complications.”

Ian wet his lips, “I’m not—”

“You’re the fucking _definition_ of a complication,” Mickey cut him off. He bit the inside of his cheek, washed over with heat as he stared Ian down. It was just a matter of time; he was under no illusion that this _wasn’t_ going to happen (he’d already prepared himself to get fucked _down_ , it was _happening_ ). The knowledge of that just about made him shiver, but he couldn’t just drop to his knees and surrender right here and now, as much as he wanted to.

“Tell me you don’t want to,” Ian challenged him. “Tell me you’ve _never_ thought about it.”

Somehow his filter failed to rein in his next words, and Mickey would lay blame squarely on Ian’s shoulders for the rest of his life. He didn’t have to look as good as he did, it was distracting on every fucking level. He confessed, “Wanting it, and doing it, are two different things.”

“Alright,” Ian sighed, shoulders falling. Wait...

He turned away from Mickey, and Mickey felt his jaw slack, watching the redhead make his way towards the door. Autopilot kicked in, despite seeing Ian’s clear bait; his voice was so sure and so clear, “Wait.”

Ian stopped.

This line of work, their days were always numbered. Hard truth. They lived amongst risk, and life was _already_ incredibly fucking short. And when it came down to it, in that moment, the thought of not grabbing this opportunity by the balls when it was fully presented to him would’ve been the dumbest decision of his miserable life. He'd walk away from this and regret it with everything he had.

“Fuck,” Mickey cursed soft under his breath, fist clenching tight at his side. “Come here,” his words echoed Ian’s from before.

Ian did, and Mickey’s mouth watered while he watched the redhead turn around and close the space between them, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Change your mind?”

“You’re a real cocky son of a bitch, you know that?” Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip, eyes scanning over Ian for the hundredth time. Jesus, why.

“You’re one to talk,” Ian grinned wider.

Mickey breathed a hint of a laugh, seeing how Ian was pressed under his jeans, how turned on he was getting. He was tired of the game now, tired of this three year _verbal foreplay_ as Mandy called it. He’d had enough.

Ian gasped when Mickey reached out and grabbed him by the waist of his jeans, yanking him closer. Mickey took deep breaths, chest heaving as every single nerve ending in his body shuddered and sparked to life —sparked for more. He’s never been this close to Ian before, never shared the same air like this, felt each others body heat.

He felt how hard Ian was against him, knowing Ian felt how hard he was too.

“We do this, you leave, we _never_ fucking talk about it again, you got that?” Mickey bit out. “It goes back to how it was after this. It never happened.”

If he relaxed right this second, he was going to lose control and end up letting Ian unearth what he was looking for before. Mickey wanted to melt to his knees and turn off his brain. He wrestled with that pull, shoved it back down.

“I know, Mickey,” Ian didn’t have a lot of conviction in his voice, and his hands were way too gentle when he wrapped them around Mickey’s wrists, sliding them up his forearms, feeling him.

When Mickey leaned into the touch, felt his belly flutter yet again, he knew he was in trouble. It felt way too good, Ian’s hands felt familiar when they’ve never slid across his skin before. Shit. Shit shit shit.

The farmhouse was quiet. Dated wallpaper and furniture that looked like it belonged to someone’s aunt. Mickey would’ve rather done this at his place, in his bed… even thinking that, he knew he was in trouble. But Ian’s hair would look so fucking _good_ against his sheets, under him, moaning and grabbing his hips as Mickey rode him hard into the mattress. The image of that had Mickey biting back a moan.

Kissing hadn’t immediately been on the docket for this, as far as Mickey had thought, simply to avoid… _complications_ . But then Ian leaned down and caught his mouth with this _sureness_ that had him involuntarily melting, involuntarily breathing a soft noise into the redhead’s mouth. It wasn’t a crashing of lips and tongue, or some pansy-ass peck. But this… _real_ fucking kiss. Hands holding his face, deep breath, warm tongue coaxing him to open up and sigh kind of kiss. Like Ian fucking _knew_ already.

Was he that transparent? Or was that just… Ian?

Ian moaned soft into Mickey’s mouth; Mickey swallowed it up, pushing at the redhead, blindly guiding them to the couch. It was plush but also wasn’t the most comfortable thing, and the fabric was half made of plastic, at best. Whatever. Ian covered him, settling between his legs, pressing tight, feeling everything. Every goddamn thing.

Ian tasted _so_ good. Scotch and cigarettes and warmth. Their tongues slid against each other, tasted each other. Ian bit at Mickey’s lips, bit across the line of his jaw, licked and kissed down his neck.

“Okay, _fuck…_ ” Mickey’s eyes went a little wide as his back arched, fingers twisting in red hair as he held Ian in place. He gasped; Ian worked his tongue and lips against Mickey’s sensitive spot behind his ear while his hips rocked steady and slow against him. “Oh shit…”

His body sung under Ian’s hands and mouth, spidery tingles running up his legs, up his back. Ian bit down. Mickey’s eyes rolled, fluttered. Ian grabbed his hip as he rocked down, grinding their bodies together; Mickey let out a shuddering moan.

“Want you so bad,” Ian growled against his neck. “Wanted this so fucking long.”

Mickey had played this out over a hundred times in his head. Too many scenarios to count. Ian demanding and in control, Ian begging to come, Ian on his knees, Ian over him, under him, everything… he’s played it all out, every which way he could think it could possibly go.

Reality is _so_ much better than fantasy. And Mickey’s body was ten steps ahead of him, melting before he could even stop himself. He was in so _so_ much fucking trouble, and their clothes weren’t even off yet.

 _Slow down. Don't be dick-dumb._ Mickey took a deep breath, softly pushing at Ian’s chest until the redhead was looking down at him with question. “I don’t have anything with me,” Mickey told him. He even paused by his nightstand at home, thinking to grab a condom, but convinced himself not to. Not his best thought out moment.

Ian grinned wide and slow, head tilting as he reached behind to his back pocket for his wallet, “I do.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, sitting up while the two of them shed their shirts quickly, “Like I fucking said. _Cocky_ son of a bitch.”

They took a beat to take each other in; Mickey warming under Ian’s heated eyes. The redhead was looking at him like his last meal, and the effect of that went straight to Mickey’s dick. Ian was fit, his body cut beautifully like freckled porcelain. He was strong, and Mickey fucking _loved_ that, loved seeing strength in a body that was about to take him.

“God, look at you,” Ian’s voice was soft and a little wondrous, knocking Mickey off kilter.

Stunned was a good word, if maybe a little strong. But Mickey couldn’t make his tongue work to form words as Ian covered him again, searching hands and eyes and mouth —something Mickey hadn’t been prepared for in fantasy _or_ reality.

Ian’s fingers were long and searching, sliding over Mickey’s body as his tongue and lips worked at his chest and neck and shoulders. Mickey was slipping, overwhelmed, feeling that _soft_ push to the surface, being drawn out little by little. How was Ian doing this? The redhead’s lips closed over one of Mickey’s nipples and sucked before he bit down.

Mickey busied his hands, trying to breathe his way to center while he plucked impatiently at Ian’s belt, shoving at his jeans until he reached inside. His mouth watered, wrapping around Ian; he earned a low groan and the Irish sagging down on him. He was big, getting even harder. Thick. Perfect. Mickey felt he was big before, but that was under jeans and against his hip… now that he had his tattooed fingers wrapped around this monster, he felt like the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.

More often than not, Mickey is the one who is doing the fucking (and he’s good at it). Thank you plethora of hang-ups. He picks up a random, gets it in and then they’re out the door, bye and you’re welcome. He never really lets himself get what he wants, not usually. But he’d made a decision about what would happen if _this_ were to happen, and he made that a long time ago. Now, getting a grip of what Ian had packing _really_ cemented that decision.

Yeah, he was in trouble. There’d be little to no self control.

“Take your fucking pants off,” Mickey shoved at Ian, sliding down to his knees on the floor.

Ian was quick, doing exactly what he was told. Mickey didn’t miss the flash of a smile though, and he didn’t really care that Ian was smiling at the fact that it took less than three seconds for Mickey to decide that he needed that cock inside of his mouth. They were never going to do this again or talk about it again; he was going to get his money’s worth, so to speak.

If Mickey’s already being paid for services, does this make him the whore in this scenario?

There was no time to waste. There was no actual rush, but at the same time there was. If he’d had the time, Mickey would make Ian’s lap his fucking altar, he would be in this position for nearly the rest of the goddamn day.

He worked Ian’s cock into his mouth, groaning low when he felt both of Ian’s hands sink into his hair, holding either side of his head. He was that perfect taste of flesh and salt. Warm and hard, filling his mouth, stretching his jaw. Mickey swallowed him down, pressing close between Ian’s legs. Ian hit the back of his throat, and Mickey groaned low again, sucking soft, allowing himself to savor this while he could.

“So fucking greedy,” Ian whispered with a smirk. “Knew you’d be greedy. Fucking love it.”

Mickey didn’t even acknowledge the natural urge to argue with the redhead, the natural urge to deny who he was. He pressed closer, taking him as deep as he could, shoving an arm behind Ian, holding him by the small of the back, pulling him.

Ian tugged at his hair, hips pressing up into Mickey’s moving wet mouth, “So _good_.”

Mickey’s body went hot; he took Ian deep and held him there until he couldn’t take it, listening to Ian’s breathing, his moans and lazy cursing. He made this sound that was half amazed, half pained-sounding as Mickey sucked harder. Ian praised his cocksucking skills, and Mickey’s throat whined hungrily in response. Couldn’t help it.

“Okay,” Ian panted, reaching for Mickey, pulling him off and up. “Gonna make me come.”

Mickey wanted to stop that soft protest that he made when his mouth was suddenly empty, but it slipped out. His body was jittery, needing so bad, wanting so fucking bad. It’s been almost a month since he’s had a cock down his throat like that —almost as long since he’s last fucked, but even longer than that since he’s been on the receiving end of the deal.

“I know,” Ian whispered between them like a secret. He kissed Mickey’s messy mouth, kissing him hard. Mickey whined again as he let himself be moved back on the couch.

God, he lied to himself for three years that he only wanted Ian because he was attractive. It was more than that though, wasn’t it? This hadn’t ever happened to Mickey before, he’d never just clicked into place like this with someone. He was instantly comfortable with Ian, instantly unguarded and uninhibited as if they’d done this many times before. That Mickey last night behind his desk, throwing his words around and acting like a big tough bastard? That Mickey had been dropped off the moment the decision was made to make sure he was properly _ready_ for Ian to fuck. That Mickey was _gone_.

His pants were tugged all the way off, then his boxers. Ian was back on him, touching and kissing and grinding together. Ian’s dick was soaked with Mickey’s spit and when the redhead rubbed them against each other, the slide made Mickey’s eyes roll, made him shudder.

“C’mon,” Mickey breathed. He needed it.

Ian was already reaching for his wallet, tossing it back on the table after he got what he needed. Mickey fidgeted under him, anticipation crawling over him like a swarm of spiders. He palmed his own cock, watching the redhead tear open the packet of lube.

“Needy, huh,” Ian wasn’t teasing when he said it, and Mickey was grateful for that, felt his body flush because of it. “I know,” still not teasing. Almost placating. Then he was over Mickey again, long fingers slipping down between Mickey’s legs, slicked and trailing up the underside of his already weeping cock. Mouth to Mickey’s ear again, “Did you get ready for me?”

Mickey’s cheeks burned, stomach bottoming out; he nodded, finding his voice again, “Wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t, the fuck you think?”

Ian groaned low and long, showing his appreciation by pressing his lubed finger against Mickey’s hole. “I know, I just wanna hear you say it.”

Mickey wanted to ask how. But Ian was breaching him with his finger, wonderfully stretching him open. It burned and flipped at his insides, making him keen soft. Ian worked his finger inside him slow at first, in and out. Mickey swallowed mouthfuls of breath, holding his legs up for the redhead, holding himself open and ready.

The other man made a rough noise as he bent over, taking Mickey’s dick into his mouth. Mickey cursed sharply, letting go of one leg to grab the back of Ian’s head. But Ian hummed a negative, blindly moving Mickey’s hand back where it was before. Slowly he pulled off, and then effortlessly moved his body down. A second finger pushed inside; lips and tongue pressed against Mickey’s perineum, Ian’s empty hand curling around Mickey’s aching erection.

It wasn’t even a word that came out of Mickey’s mouth, but his eyes instantly rolled back, body jerking with every loud, ragged non-syllable that spilled from his mouth. He could barely breathe, his dull fingernails digging harshly into the backs of his thighs —his thighs that had already been burning from the manual labor before. He was going to fall apart any minute. Ian pressed against his prostate, and Mickey’s body jerked uncontrollably again.

Finally words started forming, “Ian, fuck… okay, m’good, c’mon…” Mickey slurred. His tongue felt heavy inside of his mouth, slowing him down. He felt high.

Ian hummed against him, giving one last long lick up Mickey’s messy cock before he was pulling on him, pulling him to stand. Mickey wobbled on his legs, dazed as he took a breath, reaching for Ian. The redhead grabbed his ass hard, pulling him close so they rubbed together while Mickey grabbed the back of Ian’s head and pulled him down, needing more of his mouth.

When Ian reached more behind Mickey to grab his ass and press against his hole again, he grinned against their kiss, “Been wanting to fuck this ass for _so_ fucking long.”

Mickey got tight in his chest, pressing their foreheads together so he could catch his breath, so he could think. God, this was happening. A feathery wave of _wait_ washed over him _wait, protect yourself._ “S’not gonna change anything,” he panted. Ian was pressing against his ass again, teasing him open from this tight angle. “Business s’still business…”

“You think too much,” Ian sighed; he pulled Mickey towards the end of the couch.

Mickey wet his lips, trying to calm his hunger when Ian pressed him against the arm of the couch, letting him know how he was going to be taken. “I-I… uh…” Mickey trailed off, lost. It was hard to think when Ian had his dick pressed between his asscheeks, rutting slow against him. “M’serious… this doesn’t… ah, fuck, c’mon.”

“Yeah Mick, business is business,” Ian whispered behind Mickey’s ear. His hands slid over Mickey’s sides, around to his chest, slowly directing him to lean forward, to trust. “But this is not business, is it?”

Mickey shivered, pressing the side of his face to the couch cushion. The tips of his toes brushed against the carpeted floor. Ian’s hands slid down his back, grabbing his ass in sharp handfuls, pulling him apart. “Not business…” he murmured. Ian was so right. He was so goddamn right.

“So stop thinking so much,” Ian said. His thumbs pressed around Mickey’s hole; Mickey groaned low and warmed from being exposed like this, but he didn't give a fuck because the redhead took a moment to wetly drag his tongue over his hole. Mickey just about melted. “That’s got nothing to do with how much I’ve been wanting to bury myself in your _perfect_ fucking ass.”

Mickey took deep breaths as Ian put a condom on. The build up to this was killing him. He’s waited three goddamn years to find out what it really feels like to have the redhead balls fucking deep. They’ve fucked countless times in Mickey’s head, this almost feels surreal that it’s actually fucking happening.

“Hold yourself open for me,” Ian’s voice was low. Mickey reached back, grunting at the awkward angle making his face press further into the cushions, his weight resting primarily on his shoulders now. “Just like that, baby,” Ian whispered; he dripped lube over Mickey’s hole and that made him shiver with want. “Gonna be so good, fuck you _so_ good.”

Mickey’s insides fluttered at what Ian called him, but didn’t address it. The feel of Ian’s cock pressing against his hole was distraction enough. “C’mon —holy _fuck_ ,” Mickey’s breath caught in his throat as he was stretched open around Ian. It burned in the best way possible, already feeling so full even though he wasn’t yet.

Mickey was pulled back by the hips, pulled right back on Ian’s cock; he groaned loud and long, hands whipping back around to brace himself on the couch, but at least he had the support of the balls of his feet now. He was so fucking full. Ian was pressed so tight inside him, filling him up so completely that Mickey swore he was going to choke.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Ian’s voice was all the way fucked out, hands gripping Mickey’s hips with a bruising pressure.

He saw stars. Mickey’s mouth hung open as Ian fucked into him. Ian fucked him so good, fucked him hard and deep, bent over the couch like this. Mickey closed his eyes, letting his body move and bend to wherever Ian wanted. The sounds of his loud moaning filled the room over skin hitting skin in a rhythmic, crude symphony.

Ian hit his prostate every other time, but it wasn’t like his thick cock wasn’t already brushing it in the first place. Mickey had no fucking chance to not be in a constant pleasure daze, the waves never stopped. Every time he pushed in, Mickey keened for more, for harder, _yes yes yes_.

“You fuck so good, Mickey,” Ian moaned. “I knew you’d fuck so good. Baby, your ass is greedy like your fucking mouth...”

Mickey shivered, pushing back as best as he was able to, needing more because greedy was fucking _right_ . He was so close to coming, so close to passing the fuck out from how good Ian’s dick was. Mickey always thought it would be good but he didn’t think it would be _this_ good.

“C’mere,” Ian slowly pulled from Mickey’s body, leaving him confused and empty. But Ian just pulled him to wherever he wanted to go, sitting heavily on the couch while he reached for Mickey, “Show me what those fucking legs can do.”

“Mm,” Mickey wet his lips as he climbed on top of Ian, situating himself while the redhead has his mouth attached to his throat.

Ian breathed heavy, stealing a deep kiss from Mickey, tasting like absolute heaven. Mickey held the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, planted his feet on either side of Ian, and then used his free hand to help guide Ian exactly where both of them needed him to be.

“Fuck, your cock is…” Mickey shivered as he sank down, letting himself be filled and stretched again.

Ian was grabbing Mickey’s ass, fingers digging into the fattest part, “Yeah —like it?”

Mickey could only hum as he nodded, finally getting the muscles in his legs to move. His thighs burned like hell, even worse than before, but there was something Mickey liked about that as he dropped down over and over onto Ian’s dick. He held onto the back of the couch with both hands while Ian did the same to his ass.

“Yeah, take it all just like that,” Ian gasped. He was completely flushed. Beautiful.

Mickey moaned, pushing the burning in his thighs away, he drifted further away like he was putting himself into a trance using Ian’s monster of a cock. “Feels so good,” he slurred soft, not in control of his mouth anymore. “Feels so _fucking_ good…”

“Love that cock in your ass, huh?” Ian’s voice was kept soft, barely heard over their breaths and moans. “It was made for you, wasn’t it baby?”

More mindless nodding, dropping down harder, faster, legs burning hotter. “Yes,” he finally hissed. The control was gone, and Mickey danced at the edge of orgasm without anyone jerking him off. “Fucking made for me,” he whined. “Fucks so good, fuck…”

“You wanna come _so_ bad,” Ian’s digging fingertips moved down the back of Mickey’s thighs; Mickey shivered from his words. “Lemme see those eyes.”

Mickey didn’t know his eyes were closed, but he opened them and let out a shattered moan when he did, seeing Ian’s big green eyes dilated and glazed over with need. “Please,” he didn’t even know what he was asking for, but he had a feeling Ian did. It came out desperate, “Please.”

Ian did something that Mickey had never had done to him, something he wasn’t expecting, and something that threatened the state of his trance but not in a bad way. Ian _picked him the fuck up_ , while still buried deep in his ass, so he could turn put Mickey on his back on the couch.

All Mickey could do was let out a soft, surprised noise which turned into a deep from the belly moan because Ian was above him, fucking into him hard while he essentially folded him in half, holding Mickey down against the couch by the backs of his thighs. Mickey all but fucking howled. Ian found the perfect angle, speed and force. This. _This_ is what he needed, _this_ is what he was asking for. 

“M’gonna come,” Mickey babbled, watching the redhead above him. He was gorgeous and forever flushed, driving heavily towards his own orgasm, a litany of curses falling from his mouth. “Gonna come, m’gonna… fuck…”

Right there. Right fucking there.

He didn’t —and couldn't, _even if he wanted to_ — wait for any sort of go-ahead from Ian. Didn't even need to touch his dick, it was so good. Arching his back was impossible but his body tried to anyways. It was a lot, having Ian fuck him through his orgasm, not breaking his stride. Mickey sharply gasped for air, toes curling painfully, eyes rolling back as he came over his stomach and chest.

Half a dozen more rough pushes inside, and Ian fell apart beautifully above him. Mickey stretched his legs out on either side of Ian, wrapping them around the redheads waist as he fell forward onto Mickey, evidently not giving a fuck about the cooling come splattered between them. Gently, slowly, Ian pulled from Mickey with a simple movement of his hips and a hand reaching down to remove the soiled condom. His breath was hot as he panted against Mickey's shoulder, little desperate fucked-out noises leaving his slacked mouth.

Mickey sighed from the emptiness, but then sighed again when Ian moved his head, kissing him like before. Kissed him real, and Mickey got swept up in it, knees bending on either side of Ian on their own accord, sliding slowly across his freckled skin. He let Ian lick into his mouth, let his tongue taste and explore, let the needy moan in the back of his throat be heard.

Ian slipped his hand behind Mickey’s head, holding him there, and Mickey let him draw the kiss out further, encouraged it. Reality was that Mickey didn’t want this to fucking end. He wanted to go again, he wanted to keep kissing just like this, he wanted… Ian. He did. He’s always wanted him, he just didn’t know how. But whatever _this_ was, this is what he wanted.

Maybe… “One more time,” Mickey breathed into Ian’s mouth. He could not _believe_ what was coming out of his mouth, couldn't believe how he was skinning _himself_ for the Irish. There was no way his aching muscles would ever recover from the last six or so hours, but Mickey did not care whatsoever.

“Greedy,” Ian grinned before kissing him deep again, stealing his breath _and_ mind. The kisses trailed over Mickey’s jaw, biting him softly.

“And then...” Mickey’s eyes fluttered when Ian got back to that spot on behind his ear, thoroughly abusing it. “Never… fuck, right there… we leave and never talk about it, right?” His dick was screaming at him to shut the fuck up, but his dick was also a _proven_ troublemaker and couldn’t be trusted.

Ian’s head lifted, green eyes looking down at him. “Yeah, Mickey,” he said soft. “One and done, right? No complications.”

Mickey swallowed hard, nodding. “No complications.”

 

* * *

 

**Six months later**

 

This guy was a real piece of work. Mickey crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back against his desk while he watched through his doors window as Ian Gallagher stomp towards his office, and angrily fling the door open. He pointed an accusatory finger at Mickey, cheeks flushed with frustration.

“You said this shit would be done _yesterday—_ ”

“The fuck out of my face,” Mickey cut him off, reaching out and grabbing the finger pointed at him in a tight grip, “You wanna walk out of here intact, you’ll put this shit away.”

Ian yanked his hand back, undeterred, “Mickey, I _need_ my car.”

Mickey had already explained this shit on the phone. “Like I fucking said _before_ you stomped your pretty boy ass over here… I got _three_ fucking guys out with the flu, and you coming down here to ride my ass about this is not helping me work on your piece of shit car.”

Ian’s car was far from a piece of shit, but Mickey knew how much it pissed the redhead off when it was referred to as such.

Ian snorted a laugh, eyes rolling, “You’ll _know_ when I’m riding your ass.”

Mickey didn’t have time for this, he really did have to get back to work and Ian turning the tables on him was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now, even though the redheads words sent a little thrill through him.

“Get the fuck out of my office,” Mickey’s words were harsh but they came out with a pull of amusement. He pointed to the door, “Go.”

“I need my car done by _tonight_ ,” Ian said before he walked out.

Mickey pulled a face, yelling after him, “Ay, you’ll get your car when it’s fucking done!”

He scrubbed his hands over his face, left there in his quiet office. The sounds from the garage bled through the walls, the short bursts of whirrs, the clanging metal. Having three guys out with the flu was hard enough without Ian throwing a goddamn fit. Fucking Irish toddler is what he was.

His office door opened quickly, catching Mickey off guard while his face was covered. It was Ian, breathing a little heavy like he’d ran back.

“What now?” Mickey sighed.

“Are we still on for Saturday?” Ian asked. His face was soft now, green eyes shining at Mickey.

Mickey rolled his eyes but smiled, “Yes, we’re still on for Saturday.”

Ian nodded, grinning while he loitered in the doorway, “Okay good.” Then he slipped back out, closing the door behind him. Then the door opened again so Ian could peek his head back in to add, “You look really good today, by the way.”

“Get the fuck out of my shop,” Mickey made a half-ass kick towards his door, laughing.

His boyfriend was a fucking _idiot_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mickey Milkovich: ~~undercover~~ needy bottom
> 
> This diverted from the original plan, but I think it's cute.
> 
> -
> 
> "You couldn’t pay Mickey enough money to figure out how he ended up lounging back against plush cushions, as Ian did the very same on the other side of the couch." two bros four feet apart on a couch, cuz /they're not gay/


End file.
